The Last Maker
by Ecthelion of the Fountain
Summary: In the end, the master of lies made the mistake of underestimating him.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: Arda and all that is in it belong to Professor Tolkien. I own only the mistakes.**

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Prologue

* * *

 _Ears ringing, he fell facedown to the ground, with a salty, iron taste in the mouth, feeling that everything was spinning around him. While the terrible noise of battle seemed to have disappeared altogether, the wounds he had no time to tend before broke out all at once; a sudden pain overwhelmed him like an enormous wave, instantly saturating all his senses._

 _Just then, a cold hand grabbed him firmly by the throat, and pulled him up._

' _Surrender the Three Rings to me, Celebrimbor.'_

 _He recognized the voice. Curiously, hearing this voice again he was neither angry nor afraid, but greatly relieved. Vision blurred by blood, he looked hard at the black iron helmet near at hand, wondering if it was the familiar face hidden behind the hideous mask. ..._

He opened his eyes abruptly but then was motionless for a moment, waiting for his rapidly beating heart to settle down. Outside the tall arched window, the waning moon cast a pale light on the land of Eregion, and the rolling hills in the distance appeared purple blue against the sky before dawn.

But such exhibition of profound beauty was merely an illusion. With his Elven sight, he could easily discern smoke and dust on the horizon, above which a red sun would rise soon.

 _This is probably the last night I can enjoy at Ost-in-Edhil,_ he thought. _Storm is coming._

Fully awake now, he left the bed and walked across the marble floor barefooted; a chill rose from the soles and sent shudders up the spine, cooling the last trace of his ominous dream.

Annatar was almost at the gate. _Annatar_...eyes darkened, he let the sound of it silently pass his lips once again, and could not but laugh at himself. The Lord of Gifts whom he had once taken as a close friend and even respected as a mentor...how ironic. As soon as he put the One Ring onto his finger and tore off the long-established disguise, the truth became crystal clear: the so-called Annatar was not an emissary from the Undying Lands but an irreconcilable enemy; the dedicated teaching in countless days and nights served not only as a way to worm into his confidence but also a key to another purpose, for the once greatest and most trusted servant of the Enemy had planned to exploit the potential of the Firstborn all along.

 _One Ring to rule them all,  
_ _One Ring to find them,  
_ _One Ring to bring them all  
_ _and in the darkness bind them._ (1)

He stopped in front of his new armor and traced its shining and smooth plates with a finger, feeling an iciness spreading from the fingertip.

Lowering his guard with empathy, tempting him with visions of grandeur, and awarding him with necessary knowledge and skill: he was led step by step into the forging of the Rings of Power, and then, 'One Ring to rule them all'. With that, the new Dark Lord would have dominion over Middle-earth and thus complete his grand scheme.

Except that in the end, the master of lies made the mistake of underestimating him: Celebrimbor son of Curufin, the Head of Gwaith-i-Mírdain, the Lord of Eregion, the maker of the Three Rings, and in Middle-earth the last of the House of Fëanor.

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(1): quoted from The Lord of the Rings.


	2. The Doom: Part One

The first time Celebrimbor met Annatar was on the main road outside Ost-in-Edhil, when he was on the way back from Moria (1), still relishing the memories of vast halls delved in the mountains and large veins of mithril running through the deep rock. As a smith himself, he could not but marvel at what a strong desire of creation and exploration could bring about: although once criticized of lacking 'a sense of delicate beauty', the Naugrim had achieved something much more than delicacy by their great skill with metals and with stone.

It was said that the most successful deception always rooted in ultimate understanding. Now that he thought about it, it was probably not by chance that he would notice the man.

Even now the doomed evening was vivid to him: half of the sky was painted red by the sunset, and a man stood tall and straight by the roadside, hands behind his back, gazing out on the rolling hills in the distance. His long hair, unbound, shone like molten gold on his shoulders, concealing all the dust and stain caught along the road. Viewed from the side, the man's silhouette was so much like that of a perfect statue made by his grandmother that Celebrimbor suddenly had an illusion: even the river of Time had to slow down and linger around him.

Aware of his gaze, the golden-haired man turned around; after a glance at the banners flying high in the twilight, the man fixed his eyes on him. 'Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion?'

It was clearly a tone of asking, but he knew the man had asked while knowing the answer. Finding this both interesting and annoying, he decided to teach him a lesson first.

'You are neither a mortal nor an Elf,' he remained on horseback, lips curling and voice condescending. 'Can it be that I actually have the honor of meeting the famous Annatar whose gifts have so far interested no one?'

To his surprise, the man was totally unaffected by his plain insolence and merciless mockery. 'The value of my gifts is not meant for everyone to understand.'

He let his mocking smile deepen. 'Are you saying that Lindon is too dull to recognize your talent, so you can only hope to find your peers in Eregion?'

The man gave a laugh at that before speaking. 'Celebrimbor son of Curufin, the Head of Gwaith-i-Mírdain, the Lord of Eregion, and in Middle-earth the last of the mighty House of Fëanor.' Ignoring his tricky question, the man who named himself Annatar enumerated his titles and looked straight at him, eyes sparkling of challenge. 'I was only wondering if you would also be the last maker in this mortal land.'

He lifted up a hand to stop his assistant from rebuking him. More seriously now, he looked down at the man and studied those grey eyes: at first they seemed so clear that one could see to the bottom of them, but a closer look would reveal their unfathomable nature. Seeing this, he blinked and burst into laughter. 'Then come with me. I am now curious about what my cousin must have missed.'

Since he seldom had a mind to deal with ordinary folk, the news that he brought back a stranger aroused wide interest in the city. Despite the fact it was already at night, many came to visit him at the guildhouse with fallacious excuses, just to have a look at this stranger as early as possible. He watched this farce all along, having no intention to interfere with it; however, by the time he led Annatar into his sitting room and sat down, he still found no trace of embarrassment or dissatisfaction on that handsome and flawless face, and thus could not but feel a little disappointed.

'Coming all the way from Lindon to Eregion, what on Arda do you have to say?' He asked bluntly, ready to drive the man forth if any empty talk followed. But Annatar did not boast of anything. He simply sighed, long and deep.

The man in front of him took the appearance of one in his prime, but the sigh revealed experience that could only be accumulated over thousands of years, so sad and so true that he almost regretted his sarcasm before.

'A mighty king is Gil-galad, and wise in all lore is Master Elrond, and yet they will not aid me in my labors. Can it be that they do not desire to see other lands become as blissful as their own?' (2)

Annatar said, word by word, with the deepest regret yet just the right hint of frustration.

'But should Middle-earth remain for ever desolate and dark, whereas the Elves could make it as fair as Eressëa, no, even as Valinor?' (3)

A silence fell. The crackling of firewood in the hearth became the only sound in the chamber. Face unperturbed, yet heart racing hard, he could only stare at the man who was confident and energetic just a moment ago but now appeared tired and forlorn.

'My lord, Lady Galadriel is here.'

The silence was broken by the unexpected report from his assistant. _So she has heard of it too,_ he thought and suddenly found an inexplicable satisfaction. 'Tell her I am coming.' He told his assistant. Looking back at Annatar, not surprisingly, he saw concern in the man's eyes.

'Do not worry. I will be back soon.' he assured him absently, and then seemed to be reminded of something. 'And, you had better keep this in mind.'

Leaning over, he kept his smile on the lips, but not in the eyes.

'Gil-galad is my cousin, and I know him better than you ever can. Do not let me hear your speculation of him again.'

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(1) I chose to use the name 'Moria' in the narrative, for the Elvish translation for Khazad-dûm, Hadhodrond, is much less common. But in fact 'Moria' did not exist until Sauron made war on the Elves and the West-gate of Khazad-dûm was shut. (Yes, I am aware that the script on the West-gate of Moria contains the word 'Moria', which is a mystery in itself.)

(2)(3): adapted from The Silmarillion.


	3. The Doom: Part Two

Galadriel did not wait for him in the small chamber he designated for important visitors. In the garden adjacent to it, the lady of the Golden House of Finarfin stood alone in the moonlight, silky long hair snaring the radiance of gold and starlike silver. At the sight of her striking beauty, though well acquainted with her, he still could not but hold his breath for a second.

'Leaves fall and flowers fade.' she heard his footsteps and looked back at him, with a touch of sorrow in her ever resolute, some might even say adamant eyes. At her side, countless roses were blooming despite the night. 'It grieves me that the beauty in this land cannot last.'

'Maybe; but fortunately we can still recover it.' He walked to her and, pulling a branch to him, examined the flowers: they were not of a common crimson but a fascinating, surreal blue, like the color of a rare ore discovered in the Mines of Moria. (1) These blue roses did not exist in the Hither Lands before, and only blossomed in the immortal garden of Lórien on the other shore. If not for the effort of him and his Mírdain, they would have been merely preserved in the distant memories of the Exiles for ever, like many other wonders beyond mortal imagination, slowly sinking into thousands of ancient dreams and eventually settling into a long-lost past.

She sighed. 'Not everything can be recovered in Arda Marred. Once departed, some will never return.'

'Maybe.' he let go of the rose branch and turned to her. There were few Exiles remaining in Middle-earth in this Age of the world, and among them she was the last one he would underestimate. 'But maybe we can prevent them from passing too soon.'

'So that is why you decided to take in Annatar, who has been previously rejected by Ereinion and Elrond.' she said, without asking him for confirmation. 'But are you certain that his goal is aligned with yours?'

'No, I am not.' he laughed. 'Thanks to you, my lady, I have not even found time to really speak with him.' then he protested, half in jest. 'But should I feel honored or insulted, Lady Galadriel? For you rushed here late at night lest I should be deceived by a suspicious stranger, but I cannot remember what I have done to make you think I can be easily fooled.'

She did not play along with him. 'You know Ereinion does not trust him.'

'My cousin never lacks prudence.' He still smiled.

'Nor does he lack wisdom.' She replied calmly.

'Ereinion is not like us.' Finally a little irritated, he smiled no more and started walking back towards the house. 'He is not a maker.'

'So what?' she asked. ' _Maybe_ the makers are more easily tempted and confused.' As if she had not noticed his back became stiff at her words, she pressed, voice relentless. 'Think about your grandfather and your father, Celebrimbor.'

He turned abruptly and called his assistant. 'See the lady out.' With that, he strode off without looking back.

That night he had a dream; in the dream he saw someone he thought he would never see again.

 _Swing, strike, and flip; swing, strike, and flip again._

 _Sweat drips from the smith's forehead onto the scalding anvil, sizzling into steam and disappearing altogether. The smith's hand is incredibly steady, controlling the force and angle of each strike with ultimate precision. To the rhythm of hammering golden sparks fly from the red-hot metal, and the metal is tossed and turned time after time, gradually taking shape._

He watched attentively, while a familiar voice came to his ears uninvited, calm and low, with a power that could easily sway other minds.

 _Creation means devotion. A part of you will pass into your making and live in it ever after._

It was the master of this voice who had opened a door of creation for him and led him into a realm of wonder. However, it was the same one who had carried out a most terrible betrayal and fallen into total disgrace.

 _All of a sudden, the blade near completion is broken. The smith holds his hammer hand in check, looking down at the remains of the work, a little puzzled. As the understanding grows, the smith drops the hammer and turns away from the anvil, leaving flame, steel, and the forge all behind._

He woke up and was stunned for a long time, unable to convince himself that it was truly his father.

The last time they met was in a great hall, in front of the High Seat of Nargothrond.

He fled quietly from the enraged crowd before the verdict was announced. Running all the way back to his own chamber, he slammed the door shut behind him and trembled, teeth clenched. Burned by anger, shame, and disappointment but finding nowhere to vent, he finally turned around and punched the heavy door.

'Celebrimbor, are you there?'

He froze. It was Finduilas, daughter of Orodreth.

'My father...has ordered your father and your uncle to leave as soon as possible.' Still panting, she obviously hastened here. 'But what about you? What will you do?'

He slowly turned his back to the door. Leaning against the thick hardwood, he buried his face in his hands.

A knock on the door came after a long silence. He stirred, took a deep breath, and straightened himself. A wind arose then, and the curtains billowed.

'I will not go with them.' he said, voice hoarse, and words seemed to be stuck in his throat. 'I have no such a father.'

It was quiet for a moment outside, and then came his father's voice, seemingly indifferent and unaffected:

'Telperinquar onya, namárië.' (2)

And it turned out to be their last farewell, for he had never seen his father again.

 _We have loved leaping flames and molten metal, as well as gems that flame light and dispel the darkness, for we have believed they are the essence of the secret fire. Day after day we have indulged ourselves in the making of our hands and perfected our skills, but there seems to be no end of it, for the more we walk down the path of exploration, the longer the road becomes ahead. We have thought it is because we still have too much to know and too much to learn._

 _However, what if we are wrong? Even the mightiest of us all, my father and your grandfather, only achieved something closest to the truth, not the truth itself._

Not until then did he realize that Annatar actually had a voice closely resembling that of Curufinwë Atarinkë.

* * *

(1) Actually there is no record of cobalt ore in Moria, so it is purely my imagination.

(2) Quenya, 'Farewell, Celebrimbor my son.'


	4. The Decision: Part One

Even from afar Celebrimbor heard the noise in his workshop, and easily identified it as a sound of continuous, rhythmic striking. Frowning, he quickly searched his memory and knew for certain that he had authorized no one to use his workshop this morning.

He skipped the courtesy of knocking before he pushed the door open. Narrowing his eyes at a wave of heat from the inside, he was ready to rebuke whoever had dared to trespass, but words were stuck in his throat when he saw what was going on.

A man was working at the anvil, a true expert with impeccable technique and supreme skill. Unlike Elven-smiths, the man wore no leather apron or other protective gear, and his bare back was covered with sweat, glistening in the light of red flames and golden sparks. As the hammer rose and fell, strong, toned muscles extended and flexed in perfect coordination, so well-shaped that one could not even hope to find a flaw.

Celebrimbor would have mistaken him as someone he had known and once looked up to, one who had perished long ago with the remote history of the First Age, had he not noticed in time the long golden hair neatly bound with a leather string.

Fortunately, the man stood with his back towards him and was unaware of his momentary confusion.

'If I am not mistaken, I am still the leader of Gwaith-i-Mírdain.' He took a deep breath silently and found his voice. 'Annatar, the presumption on your part is truly beyond my imagination.'

The man did not turn around but paused. 'Perhaps what I can offer is beyond your imagination too.'

Instead of provoking him, these arrogant words only made him laugh out loud. Since the New Age began, he had been widely recognized as the greatest Elven-smith in Middle-earth, and even the proud and stubborn Dwarves of Moria had to respect his great talent and unrivaled skill - of course, not without testing, challenging, and competing with him first.

'Why do you not tell me what you can offer then?' More amused than annoyed now, he asked, half teasing.

But this time Annatar did not respond with words. The golden-haired man put down the hammer, picked up a piece of metal from the anvil, and handed it to him with a confident smile.

It turned out to be a gold bracelet that seemed to be nothing extraordinary at the first sight; indeed, it could be considered shoddily made by the standards of the Noldor. Seeing there was still dust on it, he showed no sign of taking it; and in response to his deliberate hesitation, Annatar chuckled and wiped it casually with stained fingers.

He curled his lip and reached for it, ready to launch a counterattack with ridicule, but as soon as the bracelet fell onto his palm, he was taken aback and lost all the heart to make fun of the man.

'How did you…' He started and then bit his tongue. Laying aside his previous pride and scorn, he began to inspect the piece of metal that was still warm to touch. When he finally looked up after a long while, Annatar had cleared up the tools. Looking back at him, the man still chose to stay silent, but his burning eyes along with the simple, unadorned bracelet had conveyed much more than words.

 _As you surely can see, it is but a prototype, far from perfect. Give me more time, and work with me. Together, you and I can achieve more than all that has existed in this world._

For the first time since they met, he was rendered speechless, for he knew the man did not boast. In the bracelet of gold, he felt something most unusual: a sign of life, faint, but real.

He never told others about the incident in his workshop, but he acquiesced in Annatar's presence in Eregion from then on. However, Annatar had also changed his way since then. Appearing to be a proper guest now, Annatar did not test his host's boundary again, nor did he abuse the privileges granted to him. Most of the time, the man seemed to be content with the role of an observer and kept great manners even when isolated or ignored; but if someone was willing to speak with him, he also never hesitated or refused.

As time passed, inhabitants of Ost-in-Edhil gradually became accustomed to the presence of such an outsider, and words about Annatar began to spread in the city. Maidens gave their opinions, first in private and later in the open, saying that Annatar was fair, polite, and generous; craftsmen soon chimed in, publicly acknowledging that in matters of metals and ores, Annatar spoke wisely and had insight. Only Galadriel appeared to be indifferent towards the popular man, so was her husband Celeborn, who was not of the Noldor and thus had little interest in craftsmanship; she seemed to have distanced herself from the Mírdain since her unpleasant meeting with their lord.

To the surprise of many, he turned a deaf ear to everything related to Annatar. But late at night, when he returned to his study and saw the humble bracelet on his desk, he still could not help staring at it for a moment, though choosing to keep silence in the end.

When he heard that a messenger arrived from Lindon, instead of feeling any concern, somehow he was utterly relieved.

He had been wondering how his cousin would react to his decision. After the land of Beleriand was broken and drowned, the two of them both chose to stay in Middle-earth, but as if they had reached a tacit understanding, he seldom set foot on the land of Gil-galad, and Gil-galad rarely interfered with his doing. However, he was not so naive as to expect the High King of the Noldor would simply tolerate it when the position of Lindon was openly defied.

He dismissed the messenger after exchanging a few words of greetings, for he could not wait to open the letter from Gil-galad. But after perusing the beginning part of it, he was a little disappointed. _Presumably the rest is also worded in such a careful and diplomatic manner,_ he thought, and was about to put it aside.

'Surely you know better than I do: once Morgoth also walked on the land of Aman in a form fair and wise.'

Just then, he accidentally caught a glimpse of these words and instantly clutched the parchment paper.

'In Arda Marred, few gifts come at no cost.'


	5. The Decision: Part Two

'Who are you?'

Suddenly questioned, the golden-haired man who had been studying a piece of rock looked up, with a most appropriate combination of surprise and puzzlement on his flawless, fair face.

'Where are you from?'

Celebrimbor pressed on before the man could reply, eyes fixed on him, determined to accept no prevarication but a clear and direct answer.

Holding his gaze, the golden-haired man slowly straightened. When standing tall and strong again, to his surprise, the man broke into a smile - a smile that had belonged to someone else and once dispersed for an entire people the darkness of the night as well as the gloom on the road ahead, though Celebrimbor did not know it.

'I have been waiting for you to ask me, Celebrimbor.' said the man, with undoubted dignity. 'I am Annatar who once served Aulë; I came from across the Sea.'

Such an answer was not far from his earlier speculation, though he did not expect the man to admit it frankly. '...If you truly serve the Lords of the West, why did you come to Middle-earth? Have the Powers not decided that they would abandon this land and leave it all to the Children of Ilúvatar?'

'In the past, even under the Prophecy of the North Ulmo had acted on his own and reached out to you.' His aggressiveness only deepened the man's smile. 'Surely now we can do better.'

'So you came here on your own despite their decision?' Reasonable as it sounded, he still found it difficult to believe. 'You said you served Aulë, but how can he—'

'Of course he can,' Annatar interrupted him, voice gentle but firm, 'We are makers; and no one knows us better than the Great Smith himself. Remember: while we are still finding our ways to decorate this world, he has already created a new race for it.'

Again, he was rendered speechless, but he was unable to lower his guard regardless. All his doubts seemed to be addressed by Annatar's words, however, all the thoughts in his mind did not fall into place but became even more chaotic. By an inexplicable instinct he knew that he had overlooked something, something very important. 'But—'

'Celebrimbor.'

Annatar interrupted him again. From behind the long table where a variety of rocks and stones were displayed, the man walked towards him, grey eyes now bright like silver fire, as if he had seen through his inner conflict. But as the man came closer, his heart started racing, and the same instinct almost sent him turning to flee. However, the instinct to stay and face the challenge prevailed. He forced himself to stand his ground, and the man stopped at a distance of several steps.

'You and I share the urge and yearning; that is all. Please keep this in mind: the order to which I belong had existed before the World was born, but we have willingly chosen to be bound by the World for the entire time it endures. Do not underestimate our love of it.'

Mind swimming in thousands of thoughts, he returned to his study. Not until he sat down did he notice a letter on his desk, marked as from Mithlond. _Very well,_ he thought, _after Ereinion, now comes Círdan._ Rubbing his forehead, he took the letter and opened it, and put it back where it was after perusing it.

Over the long ages the Lord of the Havens had witnessed vast changes of the world, and thus now seldom interfered with general affairs, especially after Gil-galad came of age. If Círdan decided to write to him, he must be truly concerned.

 _Do not act out of obsession, for it only leads to your own loss and destruction._ Thus said the letter at the end.

He was not pleased by those words, but he knew better than to be offended or hold it against the writer. If one had witnessed the blood and fire of the First Age, the long and terrible wars over the Great Jewels, and how a blasphemous oath had worked against those who had sworn it, it would be impossible to remain silent seeing one from the same heritage acting seemingly rash again.

However, Círdan should have known that everything he had witnessed in that Age was also witnessed by him, Celebrimbor of the House of Fëanor.

 _Círdan said what he said, because he does not understand us. He has neither crossed the Sea to the Blessed Realm nor chosen a path of exile and left it. He cannot understand my forefathers and me, for he is not a maker._

Curufinwë Fëanáro had the ambition of preserving the purest Light and the highest beauty and he achieved it; but his creation took possession of him, and in the end he was blinded by his love of it. Curufinwë Atarinkë lived his life by a deliberate choice: to be a shadow and follower of his father and pursue his unrivaled making, even though it meant taking an unbreakable oath and giving up his own talent and self as a maker.

But he, Celebrimbor, was different. Free from ambition, legacy, and vengeance, he finally took the liberty of focusing on life itself. Humble as it seemed, it was his wish to simply create a missing link to complete a cycle, the cycle that would incorporate fire, stone, metals, and gems into the nature where they came from, so that the making of the hands could become the guardian of air and water, flowers and trees, birds and beasts: the guardian who could hold off Time.

If the fair and good were all doomed to be lost, could he not at least try to prolong their life?

He wanted a shelter in this mortal land where his people could linger and find peace and rest: like Aman shaped by the Valar, like Eä created by Eru.


	6. The Downfall: Part One

He sat on the beach of pearly-white sand and gazed out at the nearly imperceptible line where the shimmering sea touched the sky, heeding nothing around him. Waves broke and receded tirelessly, crashing against dark rocks. When the endless, soothing sound was disturbed by soft footsteps, Celebrimbor was truly annoyed.

'Celebrimbor, I just learned of your father's...' said his cousin, with a touch of hoarseness in the voice: born in Middle-earth, Ereinion Gil-galad was still young in years. 'I am very sorry to hear that.'

 _So even he has learned to comfort others with empty words?_ He scoffed without thinking: 'But what do you know? You—' Then words were stuck in his throat, for he suddenly realized that his cousin, who had also lost his father, was not presumptuous in this matter.

He felt more guilty when the young Elf appeared very understanding and not a bit offended. Gil-galad simply sat down next to him and looked at the sea with him, and he found, not without irony, that embarrassment actually helped improve his sullen mood. Unable to stay any longer, he got up and started to leave, without taking the trouble to brush sand off his clothes.

'Would you come with me?' Gil-galad asked behind him. 'On the Isle of Balar are mostly the Falathrim, and Círdan will gladly take you in.'

Instead of replying, he made a noncommittal gesture. Walking back towards the Havens, he watched white sails and tall masts moving on the open water and allowed his mind to wander.

He left Nargothrond after the arrival of a mortal Man. Agarwaen he named himself, but was called Adanedhel by most, for he was exceptional indeed: fair of face, brave of heart, strong of body and mind, and clearly of high upbringing. Soon afterwards Adanedhel won the favor of Orodreth, and the King even had the Man's black sword remade - by the best smith, of course. Celebrimbor applied his supreme skill to the sword, but he did not do it for Orodreth. He had a strange resonance with the Man: underneath, Adanedhel was also somewhat of an outsider.

Then the day came when Adanedhel openly spoke against Gwindor at the King's council:

'Though Morgoth slay the doer he cannot make the deed not to have been. Even the Lords of the West will honour it; and is it not written into the history of Arda, which neither Morgoth nor Manwë can unwrite?' (1)

In the eloquent speech others heard a kind of long-lost valiance and courage, while he heard only the dangerous echo of a familiar voice: the deeds that we shall do shall be the matter of song until the last days of Arda. (2)

He went to ask leave of Orodreth the next day. 'With great generosity, my lord, you have allowed me to stay here for all these years. It is now time for me to start another journey.'

Orodreth considered for a moment and granted his request. Maybe it was his illusion, but when he turned to leave he caught out of the corner of his eye that the King of Nargothrond sighed with relief, as if an invisible burden had just been removed.

He left unnoticed; or, even if he had intended to draw much attention, it might have been impossible. Over so many years he had learned that the people of Nargothrond would never forget his lineage, although his choice of renouncing his father at the time of test had demonstrated his determination. After all, he could not change who he was: Celebrimbor son of Curufin, the youngest heir of the House of Fëanor.

But Finduilas came to bid farewell before he set off. 'Where are you going? Will you come back?'

Knowing she was one of the few who truly cared about him here, he chose not to answer her questions but to give her his advice, as his parting gift to her. 'Be careful with what is happening, Finduilas. Do not choose a path that leads to nothing but regret.'

With that, he embraced her, pretending not to see her face turning pale at these words.

Given all his limitations, he decided to go further south. Fortunately, far from the North and under the protection of Ulmo, the Havens at the mouths of Sirion were not yet threatened by war. Inhabitants there were mixed: some were of the Sindar, some were of the Noldor, some were of the Falathrim who came after the sack of Falas, and from time to time the Laiquendi came from the Land of the Seven Rivers to visit. The life in the southern lands seemed to be comfortable and even relaxing, reminding him of the Long Peace before Bragollach.

And just like the Long Peace, it ended.

One after another, ill tidings came: Orodreth perished in battle, Finduilas was captured, Adanedhel, or Mormegil, was in fact Túrin son of Húrin Thalion, the southern kingdom founded by Finrod Felagund came to an end, and the great power of Nargothrond was no more. And then in a bleak winter, to everyone's surprise, Elwing daughter of Dior came to the Havens, and along with her came the terrible news of the second kinslaying in Doriath, and the death of Curufinwë Atarinkë.

'It might be naïve of me, but I never thought he could die.'

With the help of Annatar, after numerous trial and error, the first Ring of Power was forged. The Mírdain rejoiced, and Ost-in-Edhil was filled with songs and laughter celebrating the great achievement, while in the small chamber adjacent to the garden, for the first time in a long time, he took the initiative in speaking of his father.

'If I had known…'

'Even if you had known, you would have done nothing different.'

As he expected, Annatar did not try to provide consolation or defend him, but such a response was more comforting to him than any words of reassurance.

* * *

(1): quoted from The Children of Húrin.

(2): quoted from The Silmarillion.


End file.
